The Cloven Land Trilogy

by Simon Kewin

  As she peered that way she caught sight of a small knot of figures on the river. Puzzled, she quested and found, to her surprise, they weren't undain. They, too, were people, and some of them she knew. What were they doing out there?

  She pointed toward them, south and west. “There are friends there. Can Xoster take us to them?”

  Again Lugg didn't reply as he communed with the dragon. Xoster's body continued to lurch as she beat her wide wings. There appeared to be an extra urgency to her movement, a keenness, as Xoster closed in on the undain she so despised. Then with another roar, filled with rage it seemed to Fer, Xoster banked right, heading for the tiny group of figures on the An.

  “She's not going to stop,” called Lugg.

  “What?”

  “She'll fly over them but she's not going to stop.”

  “So how do we…”

  “Can you fly us off?”

  “What?” shouted Fer again.

  “Cait said witches in Andar could fly through the air. I thought you could take both of us down.”

  “I don't…”

  “We're nearly there. It has to be now.”

  Cait was climbing into Smoke on the Water to sit beside Danny when a cry came up from Ran. They'd left the main party fleeing south to pick up the miraculous boat. The sooner they made it back to the Isle, the sooner they could prepare what defences they could muster. Borrn sat where Nox had been on the way north, and he stood to peer where Ran was pointing.

  “In the sky! A dragon!” Ran's voice, normally so neutral and level, was filled with both wonder and something like terror.

  “It cannot be,” said Borrn, his voice catching in his throat.

  “One of the undain,” said Danny. “Has to be.”

  Cait knew immediately it wasn't. She'd been touched by that mind before; been engulfed by its searing fury. Lugg had headed into the north, and she'd assumed she'd never see him again. But he'd succeeded in doing something at least. The fury-filled mind Cait had glimpsed from Caer D'nar was there in the flesh, sweeping at them like a thunderstorm.

  “Xoster,” she shouted. “It's Xoster.”

  The two wyrm lords stood their ground as the dragon blasted forward. Cait looked around in desperation. She could think only of getting away. The intrusion of Xoster's mind in Caer D'nar had been agony. The dragon was insane, consumed by her rage, barely able to differentiate between the undain and the living. But there was nowhere to hide. Cait half-climbed, half-fell out of the boat and crouched on the ice, as if the spars of the little craft would offer some protection. Danny and Johnny followed her.

  Hellen was working some magic, bending her will to gale or fog to fend off or deceive the dragon. It was too late. Xoster passed over them, blotting out the whole of the sky with her wings, her roar filling the world. Everyone, even the wyrm lords, threw themselves to the ice. Cait felt the howling touch of the dragon's mind. But there was no flame, no raking claws. Xoster wasn't attacking them. She swept over, banked sharply, and flew eastward to the land, huge wings beating to speed her forward.

  “What the hell was that all about?” shouted Johnny.

  “Those two, I think,” said Hellen.

  Up in the sky, two figures were half-flying, half-falling to the ground. By the way they flailed their arms, their descent was clearly uncontrolled. They were close to thumping into the ice when Hellen stepped forward and sent a heavy, rolling fog streaming from her hand to cover the ice beneath them. Somehow the fog was thick enough to cushion them, and they disappeared into it with no more than a soft crump.

  Cait and the others ran over. She'd seen who the two falling from the sky were, two people she thought she'd never see again.

  Fer and then Lugg emerged from Hellen's mist, both walking, both alive. Cait ran up to Fer and hugged her, the girl who looked like her. “How are you here? I thought you were trapped in our world. I thought you were dead.”

  “It's a long story,” said Fer, “although perhaps not as long as yours.”

  There was so much Cait wanted to ask. “You were there when, you know, my mother…”

  Fer nodded. “I was. And I'll tell you everything, I promise. For now we need to get to Islagray. I saw the scale of the army descending on it.”

  “We've been one step ahead of them all the way south from Guilden,” said Cait.

  Hellen watched the two of them from a few paces away, a tremble of delight on her features. She stepped forward. “It's good to see you, Fer. At least I didn't send you to your death.”

  “You didn't send anyone to their death. We did what we wanted, including Seleena.”

  “So that was Xoster? She's alive?”

  “Lugg found her, talked to her. She's insane, I think, her mind lost to grief.”

  “Ah,” said Hellen, watching the distant dot in the sky. “Understandable, I suppose. She's gone to attack the undain?”

  “She has. The desire to destroy them consumes her.”

  Hellen's eyes narrowed as she made calculations. “So there'll be a dragon flying over Andar at last. I doubt Menhroth foresaw this turn of events, but even Xoster won't be able to account for them all. She is fearsome indeed, but they have flying creatures of their own, and necromancers that will fight back.”

  “She may slow the undain down, at least,” said Cait. “Give the other witches and riders a chance to escape.”

  “Yes,” said Hellen. “She may.”

  Lugg, meanwhile, stood with Ran and Borrn. Lugg's eyes were wide as he looked to the riders. Borrn clapped Lugg on the shoulder and Lugg grinned, looking very much the boy again. The skin on his face and arms was livid from the tattoos he'd given himself. His workmanship was poor, nothing like the swirling lines the other riders sported, but they'd been enough. Lugg was something Ran and Borrn could never be: a true dragonrider. The riders of Caer L'dun were treating him like one of their own.

  Cait crossed to hug him close, too. “It's good to see you again. I thought you were mad going off into the mountains. I'm glad I was wrong.”

  Lugg's gaze flicked between Cait and Fer. “I'm glad you were, too.”

  “Was it terrible? I want to know everything that happened.”

  He was about to speak when Hellen intervened. “Such talk can wait. There are more pressing matters. Tell me, Lugg, what exactly will Xoster do?”

  “She'll attack any undain she sees.”

  “Can you control her, direct her?”

  Lugg stared into the east as he shook his head. “No. When she is calm she can sometimes be reasoned with. Now there is little of that wise and ancient being left, and there is no talking to her. She thinks only of killing.”

  “It is a sad ending to her long story,” said Hellen. “Come. We can all squeeze into the boat and tell our tales as we head to Islagray and our own conclusions.”

  Barion stopped as Jenath laid a hand on his shoulder. “Something you should see.”

  The remaining dragonriders and the witches they were protecting had climbed the slope of one of the round, rolling hills that lay between the An road and Islagray. The light was fading, the day short, but they wouldn't stop when the darkness came. The entire undain horde was at their back, and the Isle of the Witches offered the only sanctuary to be found in Andar.

  The walls of Caer L'dun were thick and tall, but they lay in broken ruins. There were barely any dragonriders left, a handful at most, for all their skill and sacrifice. Five hundred years ago they had failed Angere and now they had failed Andar. Barion fingered the string of red gems around his neck, the stones that contained the memories of the riders' shame. He was the chief of the wyrm lords, and he had failed Andar. That damned witch, Hellen Meggenwar, had been right. Right about the numbers they'd faced, right about losing. Well, they would stay true to the end, fight to defend Islagray. He was under no illusions it would achieve anything.

  “What is it?” He was too tired to keep the irritation from his voice. What was the point of any of it now?

  “In
the sky,” said Jenath, the confusion in her voice clear. “A flying creature.”

  “Another of those cursed undain?”

  “No, I think not. It doesn't fly like them. It isn't clumsy and awkward. It flows and floats. Barion, if I didn't know better I'd say it was a dragon.”

  Barion peered into the gloom, trying to see what Jenath was seeing. His eyes were old and his sight of distant things was often a blur, especially when he was weary. A sword-blow to his face had done something to one of his eyes, his vision through it milky. “Where?”

  “There. You see the three hills together on the horizon?”

  Even he could see the Revenant Army flooding down the slopes, covering them. “Yes.”

  “Beyond, between the left hand and the middle hill. It approaches from the west.”

  Barion narrowed his eyes and saw. “I don't … ah, yes. Some kind of bird? A raven perhaps?”

  “It's too large. At that distance it must be enormous.” Jenath glanced at Barion and there was the slightest glimmer of wonder in her eyes. Barion frowned and looked away. A flare of bright flame, orange and scarlet, flickered across the most distant ranks of the undain. They were too far for any sound to be heard, but a shiver ran through the massed army as the individuals in it peeled back to escape the attack.

  The flying creature soared nearer, cutting through the undain ranks, flame billowing. It swept forward at huge speed, spewing fire onto the front ranks, then flew on, toward Barion and the others, banking for another pass. It passed overhead, almost knocking the riders and witches over with the rush of its passing. Its head and wings and body were deep red, flame red, but underneath its scales were a livid purple shading to pure black.

  Barion peered upward in wonder. A dragon. A dragon flew in the skies once more. And it could only be Xoster, the mother of them all. He stared at the great beast with a childish thrill filling his heart. In his dreams he rode the wyrms, flew with them as they danced their aerial waltz, as they laid waste to the enemies of the land. He'd never admitted it to anyone. But, unable to contain himself, not caring any longer, he laughed at the sight of the creature in the sky, his arms held wide in exultation.

  Xoster flew an angled pass across the undain army, ploughing another wide path through their ranks, leaving only smoke and death in her wake. The undain fought back with arrow and spear but their weapons had no effect, glancing off Xoster's hide. The necromancers among the undain shot seething spheres of white fire that slammed into the dragon. These also had no effect, serving only to make her roar with greater fury.

  It would take only a few more passes for Xoster to seer and destroy the bulk of the Angere army. Barion looked on with joy flooding through him, his weariness forgotten. All the sacrifice, all the loss had been worth it. At the end of the dragon's run she rose, scales sparkling, and tilted a wing to turn. She arched down to cut a third swathe through the panicking ranks of undain.

  But this time she wasn't alone in the sky. Twenty or thirty of the ungainly flying creatures flapped toward her, their movements even more clumsy when compared to Xoster's grace. They looked little more than songbirds next to her huge bulk, like moths fluttering around a flame, but there were many of them, and more arriving. They nipped and battered at Xoster, flying into her, gouging at her eyes.

  Xoster wheeled in rage, but she was surrounded and couldn't defend herself from all angles. The undain creatures clung on to her: three, four, five of them attaching themselves to the dragon's wings. The great wyrm battled, but she was encumbered, losing height, and as she slowed more and more of the flying beasts caught her and clung on to her, coating her like a swarm of insects.

  With a roar that echoed across the valley, Xoster fell. The central mass of the undain army was directly beneath her. When she was nearly at the ground she thrust her wings wide once more and, still trailing the undain creatures clinging to her, tried to level out, hoping perhaps to throw them off. But she'd run out of room. Belching fire at the undain carpeting the ground, bellowing a roar of purest hatred, she ploughed into them, burning a wide path through their ranks, crushing hundreds and hundreds of them.

  She tried to rise into the air, wings beating frantically to pull herself skyward, like a swan battling to take off from the waters of the An. It was no use. The undain threw themselves onto her, swords hacking and slashing. Soon there was a seething mound of undain covering Xoster.

  There was a final gout of flame burning into the sky and then no more movement.

  Among the wyrm lords and witches no one spoke. Barion sank to the ground, still expecting to see Xoster burst free of her attackers and take to the skies. This wasn't right. Great Xoster had flown out of the old stories, come to their aid in their hour of desperate need. She should have won. She should have destroyed the horrors of Angere and saved them. That had to be how the story went. But instead she'd died. She'd cut a swathe through the enemy, but she'd died, buried beneath the teeming weight of Ilminion's abominations. Tears blurred the vision in his one good eye as he watched the scene.

  Jenath was there again, crouching beside him. “Come. We must hurry through the night to Islagray before they regroup. They'll still come for us.”

  When he looked up at her he saw that tears filled her eyes, too. Perhaps she had also secretly dreamed of riding a wyrm. Perhaps they all did. He nodded and stood. Turning away from the death of Xoster, the last of the dragons, Barion marched eastward into the twilight.

  21. Witching Hour

  Cait sat on the hard little bed in Hellen's room on Islagray. Somehow she'd imagined grander surroundings: ornate furniture, shelves full of books and treasures. Glass spheres and brass oil burners and skulls and witchy paraphernalia. Instead the room was small and more or less square, with a door and a couple of windows. A log fire glowed in one corner, filling the room with a welcome warmth. A star-shaped lamp dangled by a silver chain from the oak beam over the bed. Cobwebs had been left to festoon the corners of the ceiling.

  She, Fer, Hellen, Ashen, Ran, Danny, Johnny and Lugg were squeezed inside the room, the three witches and Ashen on the bed, Johnny lounging in Hellen's wooden chair by her desk, and the others sitting on the floor. They'd arrived at the Isle on Smoke on the Water the day before. The others, the witches and wyrm lords fleeing on foot from the ruins of Caer L'dun, had arrived that morning. Rather than attacking after the intervention of Xoster, the undain had let them escape. That had puzzled Cait at first but now she understood why. Menhroth's had all his remaining enemies neatly contained in one place. He could surround them and finish them off whenever it suited him.

  “Why are we here and not at the orchard?” asked Fer.

  Hellen waved a hand is if to dismiss her question. “The coven is all very well, but sometimes they talk so much nothing gets decided. The air out there is so thick with worry what with the wyrm lords running around that you can't hear yourself think. Time is short. The eight us will make up our minds and then we can tell the others what we're doing afterward. Besides, I think some of them might not like what I'm going to suggest.”

  Fer nodded, apparently amused by the old witch. “Won't they complain at being left out?”

  “Most certainly. Be too late by then, won't it? So, Ashen, would you like to tell us what you've been up to while we were failing to defend Andar?”

  Ashen sat with two books in his lap: one larger and bound in red leather, the familiar gold diagrams of skeletons across it. The other smaller and plainer, bound in black. Ilminion's spell book and Akbar's journal.

  Ashen cleared his throat and surveyed the room with a frown. He looked drawn and exhausted, black lines under his eyes. His hair was even more of a wild mess than usual.

  “So, as you can see,” he began, “we've managed to combine the two halves of the book into one. Here is the Shadow Grimoire, readable for the first time in five hundred years. In fact the magic required was simple enough, once the bookwyrm and I worked out the forms Akbar used.”

  “And it's all the
re? It's complete?” asked Hellen.

  “Hard to be sure. Ilminion was adding to it constantly, setting down new incantations, writing notes on old ones. There's a lot in there and there are blank pages at the end. But the good news is we've confirmed what Akbar said in his journal. We only finished the translations and comparisons this morning. If you hadn't held the undain at bay as long as you did, we'd never have completed the task. But now we know for sure: there are definitely two versions of the Ritual of Seven Ascensions and they're definitely identical save for a single word right at the end. A single syllable in fact. The first uses the ath glyph. The second replaces that with yaelth.”

  “And what difference does that syllable make to the spell?” asked Cait.

  “Unfortunately, I don't know. Ilminion didn't elucidate. Actually that's unusual as he generally explained any changes and differences with at least a few lines of scribbled notes. Here he simply wrote out the second version, underlined the new syllable twice and left it like that. The only way to fully understand the difference is to try both versions and see what happens. Which isn't practical.”

  “Would Menhroth know of the effect the switch would have?”

  “I doubt it. Not if Ilminion didn't tell him.”

  “Then we're no further forward,” said Cait. “We're left guessing.”

  “I think we can do a little better than that,” said Ashen. He looked to Fer. “You were able to work some magic to destroy an undain. Twice now, by the river at Forness and again in the other world, when you were caught retrieving Johnny's guitar.”

  Fer nodded slightly, reluctant to admit to it.

  “And both times, also, you used your own blood in what you did,” asked Ashen, “splashing or throwing it at the undain attacking you.”

  “Yes.” Fer's gaze fell as if she couldn't meet Ashen's eyes, as if she was admitting to some shameful act.

  “Good,” said Ashen. “So, what I'd like to ask you to do now is to repeat those syllables in this room so I can set them down.”